


Handshake

by there_must_be_a_lock



Series: The Rockstar AU [1]
Category: One Direction (Band), Supernatural
Genre: 'Tis A Silly Place, M/M, Rockstar AU, Weird Niche Crossovers That Nobody Asked For
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25209565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: In which Sam doesn’t have a clue about pop music, but he does know a bit about specialized leatherwork.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Sam Winchester
Series: The Rockstar AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1852567
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Handshake

The afterparty is in someone’s hotel suite, and as far as these parties go, it’s a little mellower than Sam expected. Not that there aren’t any dilated pupils in sight, obviously, but nobody’s dancing on a table yet, or anything. 

Sam feels high enough on the adrenaline of the show. He’s just been sitting on one of the couches talking drum equipment with one of the techs and he still feels giddy in that warm, floaty, really-good-Ecstasy way. Cas is listening to something Lindsey is saying, with rapt star-struck attention, and he doesn’t seem to notice his empty glass. Charlie’s flirting shamelessly with a pretty girl Sam hasn’t met, drinking water as usual. 

Dean’s pacing himself pretty well, too, sitting across the room playing acoustic duets and occasionally sipping on his whiskey. He’s wide-eyed and twitchy, but it’s just from excitement. Stevie hasn’t come in yet; Dean sneaks a glance at the door every few minutes, looking breathlessly excited, and it makes him look like a teenager again. 

Granted, they haven’t had the best luck with Christmases, but when the invitation came in to open for Fleetwood Mac at Madison Square Garden, Dean’s expression was everything Sam imagined a normal kid might look like on Christmas. Puppies and candy and Christmas, all over his face. 

Sam’s at the makeshift bar someone’s set up when the door opens, and there’s Stevie herself, sweeping through the door in a whirl of black fringe. She’s shepherding a younger guy who looks vaguely familiar, but Sam can’t place him; he’s half-hidden behind his long hair, slouching, head ducked like he’s trying to be inconspicuous. 

Stevie looks a little different from the poster of her that hung over Dean’s bed for a decade, but she’s still striking, and she’s the sort of person who lights up the entire room with her smile. She shakes hands with Cas and leans in to whisper something to a very overwhelmed Charlie, and then she heads for Dean. She kisses him on the cheek as he greets her, clearly complimenting him, and Sam’s slightly concerned Dean will pass out from happiness. 

He watches Dean for a minute before smiling to himself and turning back to the table, looking for the whiskey. Someone else reaches for the bottle at the same time, and Sam gets a glimpse of blue nail polish and chunky rings before a low, accented voice is apologizing. 

“No, go ahead,” Sam says bemusedly, looking down at the guy who’d come in with Stevie. He’s young enough to be her grandchild. Sam debates asking if that’s the case, for a second, before reminding himself of the cringeworthy time he’d asked a similar question to someone who turned out to be a Rolling Stone’s wife. 

“Here, then,” the guy says, with a little smile, and he fills Sam’s glass before grabbing his own. 

“Thanks.” 

Sam’s slightly distracted by his outfit; there’s lace involved, and a sturdy leather cuff on each of his wrists that bears the stamp of one of Sam’s favorite companies. It’s a company that makes bondage gear, to be specific. Sam’s torn between being a little bit turned on (he tells himself it’s just Pavlovian conditioning to the sight of those cuffs) and being even more curious (and mildly concerned) about how this kid knows the band. 

“Cheers,” the guy says, and lifts his glass in a quick toast. 

Sam clinks it with his own and takes a sip. “I’m Sam.” 

“Yeah, I know,” the guy says, looking up through his lashes and smiling. 

Sam’s more than a little taken aback, at both the smile and the recognition. He loves being able to hide behind the drum kit, not least of all because of the relative anonymity he enjoys from casual fans. 

Besides, those dimples are pretty startling. So are the eyelashes. Huh. 

“Good show. I like what you guys did with ‘Woman In White,’ changing it up like that. Keeps the old stuff fresh.” 

“Thanks,” Sam says, grinning. Apparently the surprises are just going to keep on coming tonight; most of the sort of people who end up backstage at Madison Square Garden don’t actually listen to the opening band. He hesitates and asks, “How do you know her?” 

“Stevie? I was just a big fan,” he says, with a familiar hero-worship sort of joy evident on his face. “I met her at a show, we got to talking. She was nice enough to give me some advice. You know.” 

Sam doesn’t know, because that’s not the sort of thing that just _happens_ to people. 

“Cool,” he says. Sam doesn’t ask the biggest question on his mind, which is _who the fuck are you?_ People who are that sort of famous tend to get huffy when they’re not recognized. 

This guy just looks amused. As if he knows exactly what Sam is thinking, he says, “I’m a musician. Well, I sing, mostly. Play a little guitar. Can’t drum, though. That’s probably obvious.” 

“Obvious?” 

“Soft hands.” It sounds like a secret in his quiet, husky voice. He holds one hand out between them, palm-up. “Can always recognize a drummer. It’s the calluses.” 

“Ah,” Sam says, and holds up his hand for comparison. 

“Speaking of, I don’t think I properly introduced myself.” He takes Sam’s hand, now, and shakes it slowly, holding eye contact in a way that makes it feel almost outrageously flirtatious. 

“No, you didn’t.” 

“Sorry, was excited to meet you, forgot my manners,” he says, without letting go of Sam’s hand. “Harry.” 

“Mind me asking if I’d recognize any of your music?” 

“I don’t mind, no,” Harry says. The sparkle in his eyes makes Sam feel like he’s missing a joke. “But… probably not.” 

“Why do I feel like you’re lying?” Sam asks, with a teasing smirk. “Nice cuffs, by the way.” 

Harry’s eyes light up delightedly for a split-second, but he just laughs, finally letting go of Sam’s hand to tuck his hair behind his ears. 

“Nice to meet you,” Sam adds, and means it. 


End file.
